Page 9

The castle had gone still again after the earlier chaos, the silence almost sacred. Only the faint crackle of the kitchen hearth broke the quiet as Davina crouched before it, coaxing flame from ember. A single log caught and flared, its warm glow spilling across the cold stone.

She sat alone at the long wooden prep table, clutching a ceramic jar of honey in trembling hands.

Her bruises pulsed—thighs, ankles, lips, palms—all echoing with the memory of MacLeod’s meaty paws.

She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the phantom weight of his hands away. With no one watching, she unraveled.

The honey jar sat open before her, its golden scent drifting up like a balm. Her fingers brushed the smooth wooden wand beside it—the old kitchen tool, simple and familiar.

She dipped it into the jar and twisted gently, watching the thick amber thread cling to the grooves. Then, slowly, she drizzled a drop onto her fingertip.

The glow of the hearth caught the honey like sunlight.

She hesitated.

Kehr’s laugh echoed in her mind—bright, wild, full of mischief.

Gods, they’d been so young. Two little rebels sneaking into the kitchens after dark.

“Quick, Dee,” he’d whispered, already wrist-deep in the jar, grinning like a thief.

“Before Cook catches us!” She’d giggled as she’d followed suit, both of them sticky and sweet and free .

Now, the memory cut deep. Sweet and biting all at once.

She blinked hard, refusing the tears.

Kehr would’ve protected her.

No one did now.

She brought the honeyed fingertip to her lips and licked it clean. The taste spread across her tongue—familiar, grounding. For a heartbeat, she was that girl again. Safe. Whole.

And then it slipped away.

Fergus MacLeod hadn’t seen a woman. He’d seen a prize. A body. A thing to be taken.

Her jaw clenched, her free hand curling into a fist on the table. She had fought. Fought with all she had.

Still, the bruises lingered. Silent reminders of how fragile her power truly was in a man’s world.

Another drop of honey. Another lick. Kehr used to say honey could heal anything—cuts, heartbreaks, even heavy souls.

She wasn’t sure she believed that anymore.

But she clung to the ritual like a prayer. It was all she had left of him.

All that made her feel safe.

Even if just for a moment.

∞∞∞

By early the next evening, Broderick approached the Romani camp, the faint glow of low-burning fires flickering across the ring of wagons.

The hollow where the caravan had settled lay nestled among the trees, shielding them from the bite of the autumn winds.

His boots crunched over fallen leaves, each step easing a fraction of the tension coiled in his spine.

The camp murmured with quiet life—women stirring pots of stew, the clink of ladles and spoons, the scrape of whetstone on steel.

Children darted past in bursts of laughter, weaving between wheels and firelight.

A few men glanced up and gave him nods of acknowledgment before returning to their tasks.

At the main fire, Nicabar stood speaking with one of the elders. As the old man ambled away, Nicabar turned, his dark gaze narrowing as it swept over Broderick. A faint smile tugged at his mouth, but the scrutiny lingered beneath it.

“Broderick,” he said warm but edged with curiosity. “I thought perhaps you would stay away a while longer.”

Broderick grinned, swagger sliding back into place like a familiar cloak. “Och, and leave ye unsupervised? Someone’s got tae keep ye honest.”

Nicabar snorted, folding his arms. “What is it this time, mi hermano ? You’ve got that look in your eyes that says trouble.”

“What look?” Broderick blinked, all mock innocence. “I’ve nay trouble to bring ye, my friend. Only opportunity.”

Nicabar raised a skeptical brow. “Go on, then. Let us hear it.”

Broderick stepped closer, keeping their conversation private. “One last stop before we head south for the winter. Stewart Glen.”

The faint smile on Nicabar’s face vanished, replaced by a frown. “North?” he asked, brows knitting. “That is no small request.”

“Just a few days. No more.”

Nicabar sighed and rubbed his hand over his jaw. “And what do you expect to find in Stewart Glen? The wind is already biting, and the first frost is not far off. If we waste time heading north, we will risk snow before we make it to warmer lands. ”

Broderick nodded, his tone smooth and persuasive. “Stewart Glen lies just outside Strathbogie. They’ve gold to spend and goods to trade. They’ll want what we have—and pay well for it. A prosperous stop, I promise ye.”

Nicabar’s frown deepened. His arms crossed, his stance firm. “You are asking us to gamble our safety, Broderick. If you are wrong, we lose precious time—time we need to make the southern passes.”

“I’m no’ wrong,” Broderick confessed confidently. “I’ve kept this caravan safe for years, haven’t I? I’ve led ye to plenty of prosperous stops before, and I’ve never steered ye wrong.”

Nicabar hesitated. His lips pressed into a thin line, tension flickering in his jaw. Broderick saw it—the trust, the doubt, the weighing of risk.

So, he sweetened the pot. A sly grin tugged at his mouth. “Rosselyn.”

Nicabar’s head snapped up. His eyes narrowed. “What about her?”

“She’ll be there,” Broderick promised. “Davina’s handmaid, aye? That sweet lass ye couldn’t stop glancin’ at last time we passed through Aberdeen?”

Nicabar’s eyes flickered, and Broderick caught the vivid flash of memory that surged unbidden—Rosselyn’s laughter, the shine of her eyes, more intimate moments. A smile curved Broderick’s lips. “Och, tame yer thoughts, brother,” he teased. “I didnae need to see all that.”

Nicabar blinked, then chuckled despite himself. “Your gifts are unrivaled, mi hermano .

Broderick’s grin widened. “So, what do ye say? One last stop. Stewart Glen. We’ll be gone before the snow flies, and ye’ll have coin enough to make the winter easy in Edinburgh. ”

Nicabar exhaled, hands planted on his hips as he considered it. “If you are wrong, I shall remind you of it every day ’til spring.”

“I willnae be wrong,” Broderick promised. “Ye have my word.”

Nicabar studied him for a long moment, then gave a curt nod. “Fine. One last stop. But if we do not leave in time to beat the frost, it is on you. Understood?”

“Aye,” Broderick said, inclining his head. “I’ll deliver. Ye’ll see.”

“We leave at first light,” Nicabar said, but his gaze lingered a moment longer, caution still threading his features. Then he clapped Broderick’s shoulder and turned away. “I hope you are right, mi hermano . For all our sakes.”

Broderick’s smile held, but something restless stirred behind it. He pushed it down, fixing his thoughts on Stewart Glen, and the woman who refused to let him go.

He turned to leave the camp, only to pause. A rustle. A shuffle. Someone stepped from behind a thick oak tree near the clearing’s edge. The man hunched forward, draped in a faded red shirt and a tattered headscarf that barely contained greasy tufts of hair.

The stink of unwashed skin and sour wine struck Broderick full force.

Something was off about him. He’d deal with him later.

After he’d spoken to Amice.

The elder Romani’s vardo was smaller than most but rich with character—carved vines and stars etched into its wooden panels, the scent of rosemary and lavender always clinging to the air around it.

Beside it stood their canvas tent with its flap tied open, revealing a table strewn with Amice’s fortune telling tablets, polished stones, and two extinguished oil lamps.

As Broderick approached, a soft, lilting hum floated to him across the camp. Veronique. She perched on the vardo’s steps, golden hair spilling over her shoulder as she loosely braided it with languid grace. Her lips curved into a slow smile when her gaze met his.

“Broderick,” she purred, voice rich as spiced wine. She stood with fluid ease, letting her braid fall and smoothing her skirts in a motion that was more performance than habit. “ Bienvenue, mon amour .”

He stiffened, though he masked it with a nod. “ Merci , ma petite s?ur .”

Her smile thinned, irritation flashing behind her eyes. She hated when he called her that now. The title of “little sister” had once comforted her. Now, it stung, a boundary she longed to cross.

Since she’d grown into womanhood, Veronique had made her interest clear. But Broderick’s feelings remained unchanged. She would always be the girl he’d carried on his shoulders through the markets. Sweet. Bright. Off limits.

She moved closer, the scent of jasmine and warm blood rising from her. The firelight caught the tilt of her head and the soft parting of her lips.

“So,” she lifted her chin, “judging by the look on your face, she did not satisfy you?”

Broderick glared. “Veronique…”

“Veronique, enough of your foolishness,” Amice barked in rapid French. She shuffled from the tent, arms full of bundled herbs. Her eyes, sharp as flint, fixed on her granddaughter. “Tend the fire. Or better yet—your manners.”

Veronique’s scowl deepened. “I was doing nothing wrong.”

“You were making a spectacle,” Amice snapped. “Go. Inside.”

Veronique’s expression darkened, and her cheeks flushed as hot as her temper. With a dramatic toss of her braid, she stormed up the steps and slammed the vardo door behind her. The whole wagon shuddered.

Amice sighed and muttered in French, “That girl will be the death of me.” She tossed her bundle of herbs onto the nearby table and set to work sorting them.

Broderick leaned against the vardo, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “She’s young. She’ll learn.”

Amice shot him a look, her eyes piercing under her gray brows. “Not with your gentle reprimands.” But her tone softened as she shifted topics. “So, what news of Davina?”

“She’s in Stewart Glen,” Broderick confirmed, pushing off the wagon and straightening.

“And Nicabar?” Amice separated the dried buds and stems. “How did he take the news?”